


A Comfortable Rhythm

by S_Faith



Series: Comfortable Rhythm (RPF) [1]
Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2019-11-24 21:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Once in a blue moon, it's good to be with a friend again.





	A Comfortable Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure I'd love Godiva Chocolate Vodka. And that's all I'm saying about the subjects of this RPF.
> 
> There is a rather modern interpretation of the marriage state here. If that sort of thing bugs you, don't read.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is not based in any reality with which I am acquainted.

Smiles all night, for the camera, for the other attendants; there's never more than a few steps taken before someone's topping up her glass with more alcohol. She has a great evening talking; she'd forgotten how wonderful it is to be near him, how charismatic he is, and she welcomes his company. They've worked together twice now, and he remarks more than once what a shame it is that they haven't been able to do so a third time. He's been very in-demand this year, so it amazes her how much of the evening he's by her side. How much he seems to want her there.

It's when the crowd starts to dissipate, still there in his court, that the conversation turns a little more inward, a bit more private. He has no complaints, no gripes reserved for off-camera, for out of the public eye, maybe except for not getting to see his wife enough lately, or his boys. He misses them. He hates the constant flying, just getting used to one time zone then being shuttled off to another. But he's enjoying the sunny weather here. It's grey where he calls home; possibly it's even snowing at this very moment.

"And you?" he asks, his hand covering her where it rests on her own knee. They've been physically affectionate all night, sitting close, touching one another's knee or shoulder, but that's nothing new or shocking. She's missed this too. "You're still seeing—"

She shakes her head, without words stopping him from asking further. "It isn't public," she says quietly. "We're waiting for the whole season to be over."

"Mm," he says reassuringly, patting her hand, then retreating, sitting back into the chair. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"We wanted different things," she says, shrugging, trying for nonchalance; she has already accepted that it's over. "I can't make someone into something they aren't." As she talks, she wonders if he still thinks it's odd, her voice, her accent. He never knew the entire first time they worked together that the affectation wasn't authentic. She remembers seeing him on the plane shortly after wrapping production, his surprise at her normal speaking voice obvious.

He turns his dark eyes to her, a small smile flirting with the corner of his mouth. "I hate to say it, but I had a feeling that might be the case," he admits. "It's why I didn't ask earlier. So many people around." 

She did come alone, and he is nothing if not perceptive; at his sheepish disclosure, though, she laughs. "So where are you staying?"

He reveals that he's staying at the same hotel at which the party's being held. He has a little garden cottage all to himself for his time in town.

"Ah," she says, then laughs again. "God. I don't even know what time it is."

He laughs too. "Late, I'm sure." He consults his watch, chuckles. "Boys are long gone to school."

She smiles, but it fades fast. There are times when she gets precipitously morose when she's been drinking, and this might just be one of those times. She thought she'd found the real thing with her last beau—then it had all gone to hell. _You can lead a horse to water_ , she thinks—

"Do you have a car to take you home?"

She lives there in the city, had taken a taxi in. She hadn't thought she'd be staying so long. "I'm sure I can find something," she says.

He looks at her so penetratingly that she thinks for a moment he's channeling the character he's played with her twice. "That isn't necessary," he says. "Come and stay with me." His voice lowers again; he leans forward, covers her hand again, squeezes it. "I think you could use a friend tonight."

She smiles, then unexpectedly feels tears in her eyes. "O—okay," she offers hesitantly.

"Good." He drains his glass then sets it down. There is no one around anymore to refill it with drink, which is just as well. He then rises to his feet. "Well. I think we've closed the place down."

She looks around. They are alone except for staff clearing away glasses and other party detritus. She empties and sets her own glass down, then stands, wobbling a bit on her stilettos. In reflex he catches her around the shoulders. She laughs.

"Sorry," she says. "Too much vodka."

"You're just running to type," he teases.

"Shut up," she replies, but it's playful.

As they walk to his cottage, his arm still steadying around her shoulders, air pleasantly cool and breezy, she realizes the night is as quiet as it ever gets for a city that never really stops. She thinks for a moment that she might actually be hearing crickets, but then thinks it's crazy. It's February, after all.

"Here we are," he says, turning his key in the lock, opening the door for them. He holds his hand out, suggesting without words she enter first.

"Really appreciate it," she says, throwing her clutch purse down onto a chair, and as she does it occurs to her what a stupid idea this really is. She doesn't even have anything she can wear aside from the dress she has on. Then there's the media, the paparazzi; if she's seen leaving his little bungalow in the morning, what will his wife think? Or—she shivers a little, whether from cold or something else she isn't sure—do they still have their agreement?

She feels his hand on her upper back, gentle, comforting. "Is there something I can get you?" he asks, voice full of genuine solicitude. "Tea? A blanket?"

He must think she's cold. She turns to face him. She always forgets how tall he is, and that makes her smile almost wistfully. "I'm fine, really." But her lower lip starts to quiver in a most traitorous manner. Even though she's reconciled herself to the way things have turned out with this latest relationship, the vodka's making her more emotional than she really is.

Whether he knows this or not doesn't seem to matter; he strides forward and enfolds her in his arms. "There you are," he murmurs, his fingers stroking the hair at the base of her neck.

"I'm fine," she says. Her cracking voice betrays her too. She clears her throat and says in a stronger voice, "Really. It's the booze talking."

He chuckles. "I know you're fine," he says. She feels his hand splayed across her back, long fingers covering over her skin, fingertips pressing down in an arc. "You always bounce back. You're a tough cookie, as they say."

This makes her laugh, the idiom coming from his lips. She pushes back to give him a smile, to let him know she really is okay. "Thanks for the chuckle."

"Hey," he says. "It's what friends are for." The crinkles around his eyes smooth out as his smile fades. There's that intense look again. "It's been so good to see you," he says.

She nods.

"It's a funny thing, being surrounded by so many people for such a long stretch of time," he goes on. "How lonely it makes me feel."

"It's not quantity," she says. "It's quality."

The shadow of a smile passes over his lips. "Very true." He blinks slowly. "Quality." He brushes his finger on her cheek. His voice goes very quiet. "You know, nothing's changed regarding the arrangement I have with—" He stops. "Well. Only if you want."

Suddenly her heart races. The agreement's still in place; she still has his wife's approval. "Oh," she says, surprised.

"I can ring her up if you like," he says, and his expression is so earnest, he's so obviously sure she doesn't believe him, that she blurts a little laugh.

"No need," she says, chuckling. She then pushes herself up onto her toes to press her lips to his in a light kiss, which is apparently the equivalent to touching a flame to dry kindling, because his arms come up and surround her, pulling her up against him, hungrily covering her mouth with his. In the six years since she last saw him not much has changed, not about the way he kisses her, not about the way his hands move over her back and ass, not about the almost instant physical reaction that occurs as their bodies move up against each other.

He breaks away, pressing his cheek to hers, his breath racing along her hairline. "Come on, darling," he says, a hint of that character in his voice, and for a moment she pretends they are the characters they had played—she thinks maybe he's pretending the same—though they will never have those things together. And that's okay. This is what it is, and it is what it needs to be.

They still have that moment, though.

He pulls away, taking her hand, bringing her forward to the bedroom. When she removes her high-heeled shoes she laughs a little, feeling miniature in comparison to him. She takes off her dress; he slips out of his suit and tie and drapes it over the chair in there. There's nothing of romance about what they're doing. This is comfort, this is familiarity, though by no means is there no love; certainly they do love one another in their own way. Absolutely there is desire.

He helps her take down her hair, combing through it with his fingers. She looks back over her shoulder and catches him smiling. "Always did like it a little longer on you," he says thoughtfully.

"And blonde," she finishes, which it is right now. She's heard him express this preference on more than one occasion, such that it's a joke between them.

"Yes, and blonde," he says. He sweeps her hair aside with his fingers, exposing the nape of her neck and causing her to shiver again with the sensation. He then takes her in his arms and kisses her cheek. His hands drift down to her thighs then rake on her skin as he nuzzles into her. 

"And curvier," she continues.

"Mm, yes, that too," he says. His fingers trace errant circles on her hips as he takes her earlobe gently between his teeth.

"I'm working on that," she manages, then turns around, ambushing him with another kiss, arms about his neck.

She doesn't know how they end up horizontal, buried beneath the duvet, tumbling and groping and stroking each other, but they do, and they are. Before not very long—after the abundant caresses, feather-light teasing, teeth-grazing on delicate skin comprising their foreplay—she's beneath him, he's parting her knees, and then he's thrusting and groaning as she cries out in her pleasure.

And then after such glorious frenzy, they fall still, desperate for breath and clinging to each other; she always did like that about their trysts, that he wasn't impatient to flee her side, almost as if he wanted to reassure her that this was really something he'd wanted and not just a matter of convenience. The second hand of a clock ticks somewhere in the room. She finds this soothing. Her pulse calms, she grows quieter, her breathing evens out. In a practiced move she turns to her side just as he spoons up against her back.

"Just what we needed," she says drowsily.

"Mm," he said, humming his affirmative close to her ear, lazily stroking her skin.

"Though about the morning—"

"Shh," he interrupts. "We're not there yet." With that he sweeps along her skin again with the pads of his fingers, places his mouth on her neck and touches his tongue to her skin, a sign that there may just be no sleep before the sun rises, before the morning comes. Maybe no sleep at all.

………

Turns out she's wrong, but only about an all-nighter; they do actually sleep, but the sun's already in the sky when that happens. When she wakes he's not there, and then he is.

"Coffee?" he asks. He's already showered, shaved and dressed, and bears a tray. Oddly she doesn't feel as wrecked as she thought she might, and she props up on an elbow, half-grinning.

"Yeah. Thanks."

He sits, resting the tray in front of her. The coffee's light and undoubtedly sweet, confirmed when she picks it up and sips it. He's included a pastry of some kind, an apple turnover judging by the look of it. She glances to him, and he smiles.

"I didn't know what you normally eat for breakfast," he confesses, "since you were on an anything-goes diet when I saw you last."

She laughs, picks it up, takes a big bite. She forgives herself the indulgence.

He rises again. "I have an appointment but feel free to stay as long as you like."

She thinks of going home, going back to the process of separating those things back into 'mine' and 'his', and wishes she could stay buried in the duvet but knows she can't. "Might have a shower," she says. "Don't know how I'm going to leave without feeling like all eyes are on me. Same dress as last night like some pathetic college-age walk of shame." She glances to the red object strewn on the chair. It's not exactly nondescript.

He looks at the chair too. "You have a point about the dress," he says, chagrined. "I doubt very much you could get away with even the smallest of my clothes."

At this she narrowly avoids inhaling coffee laughing at the mental image of wearing his suit jacket and pants to a taxi. 

"But," he continues, "there is a private door, and you could borrow my mack."

Leave it to an Englishman to travel around the world with a raincoat. She smiles. "I'm sure that'll be fine." She doesn't worry too much about getting it back to him. She knows he won't. 

"All right," he says, though still looks pretty dubious given it was his suggestion. He bends and plants a kiss on the top of her head, adding, "Good to see you again."

She smiles up at him once more. "Good to see you too."

She thinks about asking him if he wants to have dinner or drinks, see each other again, but the requests die on her tongue. She does enjoy his company—sharp as a tack and darkly witty—but he's here for a reason. He's busy. More importantly, she needs to cope with her own reality. Dinner, drinks and maybe more would just be escaping from it, avoiding it.

He exits the bedroom, then she hears the front door open and close. She's left in silence.

She eats the pastry and the coffee, thinking of the miles she'd have to run to make up for it, then scolds herself for thinking it. She lingers in the shower a little longer than she should, letting the hot water run down over her, plastering her hair down to her head before trailing down over her body. She's pleasantly achy and the shower feels like a sort of baptism.

By the time she emerges she feels refreshed, invigorated. She shakes out her hair, dons her dress once more. She still feels like all eyes will be upon her, leaving the bungalow in a trench coat and high heels as if modeling flasher couture (the dress wouldn't be visible), but she doesn't seem to care as much anymore. She thinks about phoning for a taxi when she hears a key turning in the door. The sound makes her freeze in place.

"Are you still here?"

She sighs. He's returned. Maybe she was in the shower a lot longer than she thought. "Yes."

He appears around the corner just as she steps into her heels, and when he sees her they both smile. "Just passing by and wondered if you might like a lift."

She tucks her hair behind her ears, smooths her dress down. "Yeah, thanks."

He holds out a hand; she picks up her clutch from where she'd dropped it on the chair. She feels his hand on her back as he ushers her out the door to where the car is waiting, the private path lined with greenery and shielded from street view.

The driver tips his head in silent, respectful greeting. She smiles politely in return and looks down, feeling shy, even guilty. When they get in the vehicle she glances to him and is suddenly not worried at all when she sees his expression is unaffected. If he didn't trust the driver, he wouldn't have come back for her.

"Home, then?"

She thinks about cracking a joke—where else could they possibly go with her dressed in last night's evening wear?—but in the end she smiles, feeling oddly confident about returning to her home.

"Yes," she says with a nod, then gives the driver her address.

He looks at her fondly, then reaches and takes her hand, squeezing it in a reassuring manner and doesn't let go, doesn't say anything, not until they get to her home.

"I keep hearing rumors," he says. "You and I, reprising our roles once more."

"Is that so?" she says.

"Mm-hm," he replies.

She meets his gaze, those intensely dark eyes, and feels a broad smile overtake her features. "I'm definitely game," she says, as if the smile hadn't already said it all.

"Good," he says. He then leans over and gives her a kiss goodbye. It's short and sweet and full of future promise; she hopes his wife never revokes this privilege. "Until then."

She emerges onto her walk, gives a little wave, then watches the black SUV drive off until it's gone from view. Only then does she face the house, and for the first time in a while, she realizes that she's doing so without a sense of dread.

She always bounces back, after all; she's a tough cookie.

_The end._


End file.
